Max had her chair tipped back on two legs, one boot braced against the desk leg for balance. She was not paying attention. Not really. The teacher’s voice was a drone, a background hum, and her eyes were fixed on the window, tracking a single droplet of rain as it zigzagged down the glass.

Then the door opened.

It was not a dramatic entrance. No thunder. No spotlight. Just the creak of hinges, the shuffle of damp sneakers on linoleum, and the teacher—Mrs. Driscoll—clearing her throat.

She looked up.

And then she was looking at you.

You took the empty seat. Three rows ahead. Two seats to the left. Close enough that Max could see the way your hair curled at the ends from the damp.

She told herself it was nothing.

Then you laughed.

It was quiet. Polite. A soft huff of air at something Mrs. Driscoll said about the syllabus. Max’s stomach did something strange. Something that felt a lot like falling.